


The Amazing Tiny Winter Soldier!

by johanirae, ninemoons42



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Companionable Snark, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, For Science!, M/M, Miniaturization, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/pseuds/johanirae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve leads Bucky and the Avengers into battle, and they all come out mostly unscathed.</p>
<p>Well.</p>
<p>If "unscathed" means, in Bucky's case, "shrunk down to about 12 inches tall".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Amazing Tiny Winter Soldier!

**Author's Note:**

> title: The Amazing Tiny Winter Soldier!  
> Written for the 2014 Avengers Reverse Bang @ http://avengers-rbb.livejournal.com  
> author: ilovetakahana / ninemoons42  
> artist: johanirae | [Art Master Post Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2172951)  
> rating: Teen and Up  
> word count: about 9,500 words  
> Avengers ’Verse: Heavily MCU-dependent (including spoilers for CATFA, CATWS, and Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD), with additional characters from the various movies and comic titles  
> pairings: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes; implied Thor Odinson/Jane Foster  
> warnings: foul language and far too much snarking  
> beta: afrocurl  
> Author's notes appear at the end.

Steve is up on his feet and running, charcoal and crumpled balls of paper and sharp pencils left scattered all over his desk, almost as soon as he hears the warning signal. It vibrates in his feet even now: a sharp tone that seems to come from everywhere, followed by JARVIS speaking, sounding calm and urgent at once and isn’t that an eerie feeling, Steve thinks.

He’s heard all kinds of authoritative voices - gruff or impatient or half-crazed - and he’s even liked some of them, and only Peggy Carter ever gave orders in just exactly those tones.

(He had, of course, mostly obeyed her when she spoke like that, except when he couldn’t and _wouldn’t_ , such as when he jumped out of a plane without a parachute because he needed to find someone.

(“James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, three two five five seven - ”)

He’ll have to ask Tony about things like this. About JARVIS’s voice and the accent that was not completely dissimilar to Peggy’s, and that will have to wait for a day when Tony can even talk about these topics, because sometimes when Tony talks to Steve or to other people about the beginnings of SHIELD he’ll clam up at the first mention of Howard Stark, and Steve has left him several times in the midst of a half sullen silence.

And that’s the last thought Steve has time for, because he’s getting out on one of the top floors and as soon as he says his name - he’s not even winded and that will never be not strange, even so many years on, because he remembers when he used to have to gasp for what felt like every waking breath - the walls open up for him, panels shifting and sliding. Overhead lights gleam off his shield and the truly comprehensive array of weapons. Mostly guns. Trench guns of the kind Dum-Dum liked to haul around, and a modern version of Gabe’s machine gun. 

Steve dresses quickly. He’s had time to practice putting his gear on. Lightweight armor plates and another set of patents filed under the names _Banner, Bruce_ and _Stark, Anthony_. The harness that spans his shoulders and back, to which he can attach his shield if he needs both of his hands free. 

“Getting into trouble again, are we,” a voice says behind him, and Steve doesn’t pause, doesn’t look up from his boots, though he does smile, and hold a hand out.

Bucky steps easily into place next to him, already wearing most of his armor, including the complicated rig in which he carries most of his arsenal, and Steve watches him out of the corner of his eye. 

Bucky’s hands are heavy and hard around Steve’s own, and he likes that weight, likes that reminder of Bucky’s presence, likes that Bucky will never ever stop doing what he’s currently doing.

What had come back to him - against all possibility, against all hope - is someone who’s almost Bucky, and someone who’s mostly the Winter Soldier. Someone who’ll volunteer to take the kill shot. Someone who’ll stride hard-eyed into the jaws of death. Someone who’ll check Steve’s armor for him.

A gentle tap on his wrist, now. 

Steve turns his head - just in time for Bucky to kiss him in that snug and warm and secret place between his cheek and his mouth. “I checked it twice before you showed up,” he tells Bucky.

Cold eyes. A derisive grin, mostly familiar. “Doesn’t count. You’re no good at fussing with your armor. I have to do that for you. So now you’re good.” Bucky turns away, and Steve watches him make a motion that looks like he might be shoving his hands into (currently nonexistent) pockets. “Sniper rifle today, do you think?”

Steve shakes his head immediately. He cocks his head and listens to JARVIS for a moment. Weather forecasts, current wind speeds, number of estimated opponents. Useful information. Every scrap of data helps, and helps him decide now. “No. If you’re listening to that - ”

“I am - ”

“ - Then I want you next to me at all times.” Steve runs his gloved hands through his hair, and gives it up as a lost cause, before putting his cowl on. “If I’m going to spend my afternoon getting shot at by crazy evil mad scientists, you’re going to be right there with me.”

Bucky laughs nearly silently. “I’ll tell the science heads you’re mouthing off about them again.”

“Fitz and Simmons and Doctor Foster are not evil.”

“That’s what they want you to think.” And then Bucky pulls a pair of SMGs off the wall. Steve watches him check them over with practiced hands.

A voice in Steve’s ear: “Quit flirting and come on up, boys, one of you is piloting this Quinjet and everyone else has already left.”

Bucky laughs, again, louder this time. Steve manages to catch most of the Russian he throws affectionately at the unseen Natasha: “ _Awww, jealous?_ ”

“ _Not on your life._ ”

And Steve shakes his head, and the shield is a welcome weight as he swings it onto his shoulders, and he can hear Bucky’s heavy footsteps in his wake as he snugs his other glove and starts for the elevator once again.

Chatter and cacophony of voices in his ear, and he can keep up with all of them, from War Machine and Iron Man arguing to Thor laughing, from Clint whistling some kind of obnoxious pop tune to Natasha snapping out coordinates, and it’s easy to strap himself into the co-pilot’s seat, and watch as Bucky guides their Quinjet into the air.

Just another day with his team, and with the people he trusts.

Just another day with Bucky’s sliver-smile and the two of them charging into battle together, from the Quinjet’s bumpy landing to the barrage of projectiles that just barely nicks his shoulder and Bucky’s left arm.

Steve listens to the others with one ear, and sends them to where they’re needed, and gives them orders, and his other ear seems to be listening to one voice and one voice alone. He throws Bucky spare magazines; he boosts Natasha up into flight and waits anxiously for her to be caught in Bucky’s powerful grip; he sends Clint, and eventually Rhodey, in as backup for when Bucky finds himself several floors up and without any spotters.

“You get back down here, soldier, I mean it,” Steve snaps at some point, even as he dodges another flurry of bright lancing lightning and the smell of ozone and cordite fills his nose, as sharp as it had been when he’d been battling HYDRA’s goons. “You’re supposed to be watching my six!”

“Oh, I am,” is the drawling reply. Bucky’s words are interlaced with clattering gunfire. “You’ve got a damned nice six to watch. Better than most television.”

Objections down the comm links. “See if I ever let you watch _Say Yes to the Dress_ with me ever again, you don’t even know what TMI means,” Clint hollers, and that’s backed up by a truly bone-shaking laugh, something deep and primal that isn’t Thor.

It’s Bruce, currently massive and green, and that laughter is followed by screaming and crunching and the occasional explosion.

Tony’s distant and indecipherable yelling suddenly turns into something Steve’s all too familiar with: “Oh, _shit!_ ”

“Report!” Steve barks, and he runs for the nearest possible shelter. Shattered glass underfoot, and the acrid smell of burned things. “Everyone find a safe spot and WAIT for further orders!”

“Yeah, not an option for those of us who fly,” Rhodey says, sounding a little apprehensive.

“What are you seeing?”

The voice that cuts in is female, harried, and commanding: it’s Carol Danvers, it’s Captain Marvel, and she’s not even officially on the team yet because there’s something called red tape in the way, and now Steve hisses as he takes her information in: “Got ray-type weapons here, trying to find out what those things do - ”

“Don’t engage, damn it, stand down!” Steve yells, and there’s a near exact echo of his words.

Of course Bucky knows what it means to fight people carrying those kinds of weapons.

“I require assistance,” Thor suddenly says.

It’s like spurs to a horse, and Steve takes a deep breath and plunges back into the fray. “Copy that, Thor, give me your coordinates - the rest of you stay away from those weapons until we find out what they do exactly - ”

More swearing, this time intermixed with angry roars. “Heads up, gang,” Clint growls over the comm lines, “we just dodged a faceful of bad light show things, good thing Bruce’s immune to this shit - ”

“Stop talking nonsense and tell us what it _does_ ,” Natasha snaps, and Steve can actually see her, leaping from one rooftop to another, not far west from his position. 

“Shrink rays! No fucking kidding, you get hit with those things and you get small - car, Hulk! I don’t want to get hit by the car!”

“Stay put! I’m almost there! Bruce? Bruce! Listen to me, Bruce, I don’t want you getting hit by those things - ARGH!” 

Bucky.

That wasn’t Natasha. That was Bucky.

Oh, god, what has he gotten himself into this time?

Steve stops thinking.

He turns the corner, nearly runs into a bunch of hostiles, and there’s no time to plan - no time to waste - he throws the shield, sends it careening straight into the nearest clutch of weapons, and before he hears the crunch of crushed metal he’s wading straight into the fray - he twists and ducks, he dives for cover. Something hisses just over his head, and he smells scorched armor - his - and coppery blood - his opponents’. 

More hostiles. More people who have to get out of his way. Steve grits his teeth. His fists are starting to hurt. He crawls, and someone throws a handful of glass into his face, and he gasps and tries to get out of the way. He’s mostly successful. Just one white-hot burst of momentary blinding pain, deep into his right cheek - 

Something crashes to the ground behind him, giving him extra impetus as he leaps forward and lands boots first on an armored goon’s chest.

The shadow that looms over him, at least, is familiar and welcome.

“Hiya, Cap,” Clint says, nocking and firing and looking for the next target, and this? This is actually a normal conversation. They do this on the training floors pretty much every day. 

“Sit rep,” Steve says as he throws his shield and cuts another enemy weapon into pieces. 

“Nat’s got the flyers organized, and last I heard Tony he was laughing his head off.”

“Oh god, what now,” Steve says, almost entirely involuntarily. 

“Yeah, I don’t wanna know either,” Clint says. “And also I had several people tell me off to go look after you and your boyfriend. I guess they think you both need protecting?”

“Maybe.” Steve looks around, and the area they’re in is clear for now, and he touches one gauntleted finger to his cowl, over his right ear. “Buck? You all right?”

He hears his own voice shaking. Swallowing is difficult. Fear chokes him. 

Silence, and he looks up in time to see the Hulk frown. “Where Soldier?”

“Bucky,” Steve says again.

“Uh, maybe you want me to call one of the others in, so we can prep for evac,” Clint starts.

And then: “Steve.”

He should have felt better. He should have been able to take a clean breath, a relieved breath.

Instead Steve goes up even more onto his toes, scans his surroundings. He can hear his heart hammering in his ears. “You okay, Buck?”

“Gonna need a little help, maybe.”

Why does he sound _small_?

Steve forces himself to take a deep breath. Tries to sound capable. Knows he fails as soon as he opens his mouth. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you. It’ll be just like old times.”

A soft laugh, and buried beneath - pain, or something else. Bucky sounds nervous. “Yeah, I think I remember most of those.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Clint stage-whispers.

Steve shakes his head. Another unnatural breath. “Okay, Bucky, where are you? Can you see - well, can you see Bruce?”

More laughter, too quiet. “ _Yeah_ I can. He’s kind of hard to miss. Say hello to him for me, will you. And also tell him to stay a little bit away from me; he might get a little angry if he sees me like this, and I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“Sees you like what?” Steve closes his eyes, now. Clenches his hands into fists. “Come on, Bucky, just give it to me straight, are you or are you not okay?”

“I have no fucking idea,” is Bucky’s answer. “And to answer the other question: I’m, um, mostly underneath this overturned blue car - ”

Steve looks around, and Clint’s already way ahead of him because he just points and says, “Over there, Cap.”

“All right, Buck, we’re on our way,” Steve says, and adds, “Come on, Clint, you’re with me on this one. Bruce?”

The Hulk blinks and sits down carefully in the shattered road. 

“We’ll call the others in on your position, okay?”

“Okay,” is the reply, heavy and rumbling beneath Steve’s feet.

“All right, Buck, we’re on our way,” Steve says, motioning to Clint to lead him forward.

As he walks gingerly over damaged pavement and broken asphalt, a voice crackles reports into his ear. “We’ve got things tied up here,” Carol tells him. “Though I’m having a hard time keeping Stark away from what he calls shiny things. Any advice, or do we just go and dump this stuff so we can go home?”

“Don’t dump it,” Steve says. “Don’t let anyone near it - especially not Tony - ”

“Whoa, Cap, everything okay with you, because you’re still speaking like we’re in the middle of a fight - ”

“I don’t know,” he tells her, honestly. “Let me find Barnes first and then we can talk about next steps - ”

“Cap,” Clint says, then, and Steve signs off hastily.

A series of complicated expressions crossing Clint’s face. Steve blinks, takes him in, takes in the fact that he’s squatting next to the car that Bucky had indicated. 

“How bad?” he mouths.

“Just see for yourself,” Clint says, and steps aside.

Steve takes a deep breath. Glances at the car. There is no way that Bucky can fit into the space between the overturned seats and what used to be the ceiling of the blue compact - he’s always been broad-shouldered, even before he underwent his own series of physical transformations - why was Clint looking in - 

Movement, dull flash of light, a quiet groan - 

The Bucky that crawls away from the car and stands unsteadily on his own two feet is - he’s - 

“Dude,” Clint says, slow and shocked, and sounding as gobsmacked as Steve currently feels. “Why the everloving fuck are you _tiny_?”

///

“Tell me he’s okay,” Steve says.

There’s a towel draped around Bruce’s neck, and there’s blood on his hands that likely doesn’t belong to him - or so Steve hopes - and there are worried lines in his face. A multiplication of silver strands in dark curling hair. 

Rush of flowing water, and the artificially flowery smell of antiseptic hand soap. Steve winces and looks away and can’t escape that scent. The flowery notes are new, and of this century, but he’d remember that sharp cleansing stink anywhen. Hospitals smell the same to him, then and now.

Steve waits, gritting his teeth. He’s not patient. He’s never been patient. He has, at times, been accused of rushing into situations without really thinking about the consequences. (See also: every time he jumps out of an airplane. Usually without a parachute, and usually with someone screaming after him, perhaps in exasperation.)

Bruce scrubs the blood from his knuckles and palms, covers his hands with suds and washes them away, and when he’s done he uses a wad of paper towels to dry off.

“Sorry about that,” Bruce says, kindly, when he’s done. He motions to Steve to precede him out into the corridor.

Outside, the skies are clear blue infinite, and there are clouds drifting peacefully past, cotton-candy pristine like ships on the ponderous move. 

Beneath his feet Steve can feel the distant hum and throb of helicarrier engines. It had been Rhodey’s suggestion to evacuate to here, and Tony, paranoid as usual, had enthusiastically seconded him.

Steve takes a deep breath, and wishes he could be calm.

The last time he’d seen Bucky, everything had been fine, at least on the outside. 

Everything except for the fact that Bucky now stands exactly twelve inches tall.

Questions clamoring in Steve’s mind: how, why, is it permanent, is he going to be okay?

He bites his lower lip, hard enough to almost draw blood.

Now Bruce is stepping in front of him, is pushing through a set of glass doors. Flash of paper, of crooked letters: **Keep Out - This Means You, Tony Stark**. Tony’s name is underlined three times.

“Has Tony tried to get in?” Steve asks, and knows he doesn’t sound like himself.

“Oh, right, you haven’t been here yet,” Bruce says as he puts a shirt on. The hems of his trousers drag along the tiled floor. He moves about easily in bare feet. The smile on his face is very slight, just enough to look conspiratorial. “Yes, he has, but I’ve put in a couple of modifications. He won’t be trying again for a while. Right, guys?”

“Right!”

Steve blinks when two voices answer that question. A series of virtual screens up ahead, clustered above and around a long and mostly neat worktable, steel-topped and strewn with sheets of paper. 

Two faces in one of the screens, one wreathed in bright smiles and the other looking quietly amused. White lab gowns, one pair of goggles, and one hook-shaped cane. 

“You remember Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz,” Bruce says. 

Steve forces a small smile onto his face. “I remember. Hello, doctors,” he says. He drags his feet along the floor. He looks restlessly around the room. Meticulously aligned stacks of books on Bruce’s worktable, and in the far corner an assortment of mugs, including a lopsided one that’s been decorated in cheerful-looking purple flowers.

“I don’t like it when you frown, Steve,” says a familiar voice, rather smaller and quieter, but it makes Steve blink and snap to attention, eyes darting around until he sees black boots and a familiar metal arm. “You need to smile.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and he carefully approaches the table.

“Hi,” Bucky says from his perch atop three huge hardbound books, wiggling the fingers of his left hand.

“So all outward indicators show that our friend Bucky Barnes is in the pink of health,” Fitz says slowly and clearly from his monitor. “Cheerful, too.”

“Hard to avoid being cheerful,” Bucky says, “when I’ve got you guys looking after me.”

“Better us than Tony Stark, you mean,” Simmons says, chuckling and reciprocating with both hands when Bucky gives her an entirely unimpressed and entirely miniature thumbs-up. 

Bruce laughs, helplessly, and reaches for the mugs. “Can I get you some tea, Steve, Bucky?”

“How can you be so cheerful?” Steve bursts out, instead of answering. “I mean, Bucky.”

He’s not entirely surprised when the first reaction to that is a half-annoyed twist in that expressive mouth. “I don’t _know_ , Rogers, is this supposed to be strange to me? Stranger than having a twenty-year-old body when I ought to be in my nineties? Stranger than having a goddamn metal arm that works _better_ than flesh and bone ever did? Stranger than having my best friend join me in the present time, whole and healthy and kind of oversized, when I left him behind skinny and determined and killing himself to get drafted?” Bucky’s eyes shine with a bright strange light. “Seems to me your priorities aren’t exactly all in the right place, if you know what I mean.”

Steve gapes, and then closes his own mouth with a clack of teeth. 

Bucky smiles, and beckons him closer.

Steve feels his eyes widen when Bucky pats him on one cheek. Familiar warmth, familiar puckish look in his eyes, familiar sardonic affection in the lines around his mouth. These are the things that draw Steve to him, to this man who came back from years of indoctrination and cold cold sleep, who retains vague memories of a blue coat with a Howling Commandos insignia and very clear memories of the depths of the Potomac River.

Steve swallows, tilts his head into Bucky’s palm, though he’s careful not to lean on him. “I’m being an idiot, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Bucky says. “But that was you then and that’s still you now, so what else is new.”

And then Bucky looks over his shoulder, looks at Fitz and Simmons who are pointedly looking everywhere else but at the two of them, and says, “Spit it out, I know you agree with me. You too, Bruce.”

Fitz and Simmons splutter and shake their heads and hide their smiles behind tablets and books, and Bruce comes back with three steaming mugs and a small grin. 

“That aside,” Simmons says after a moment’s whispered conversation with Fitz, “we do have some moderately scientific questions for you, if you don’t mind - ”

“So long as you’re over there and I’m over here,” Bucky says, and he’s smiling, but there’s more than a slight edge of tooth in that smile. “I mean, no offense, but - you’ve read my files. I’ve only got so much tolerance in me for scientific and medical poking, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, about that,” Bruce says, and Steve raises an eyebrow in his direction. “Maybe Tony’s a little bit useful, after all.”

“How’s that?” Bucky asks, getting to his feet and stretching and then crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Scans,” Bruce tells him. “I’ve been gathering data on you while you were talking to Steve. No fuss, no mess, and certainly no poking. We don’t go in for intrusive testing around here.”

“Too primitive,” Fitz says, and when Steve looks at him he’s not even fighting the small grin.

Now Steve watches Bruce move confidently around the room, pulling down other virtual screens, mashing two or three together with efficient sweeps of his hands. 

“Oh, here’s the data, thank you,” Simmons says, and Steve glances at her as well - at her fingers flying over the screen of her tablet. “I do want to know exactly how that miniaturization ray works. It’s not the compacting type, is it? Or else Sergeant Barnes would be carrying around his actual original weight with his current reduced height, which would render him too dense to move around - catastrophic consequences for his skeletal system - ”

“Could I ask you to move your left arm around, Sergeant?” Fitz asks. “Just a few basic movements: make a fist, open your hand again, bend your arm at the elbow - ”

Steve watches Bucky shrug and nod and run through the requested motions, and despite himself he leans in to listen when Fitz starts nodding and taking notes. “No problems with range of motion, or in the nerve interfaces?”

“Everything seems to be working fine,” Bucky reports. “Huh, you’re telling me there’s something fishy about this?”

“Specific effects,” Bruce muses from nearby, scooting his office chair around in a small circle. Steve winces, a little, when the wheels squeak softly. “I’m starting to think there may have been nothing accidental about this whole situation - tell me, Bucky, did you just run into the beam or did they deliberately target you?”

“Little bit of both,” Bucky answers after a moment. “I was running, I was on my way back to Steve, and the first shot grazed me in the left shoulder - next thing I knew they were firing at me, two alternating sources.”

Steve blinks, and thinks back to his part of the fight. “Weren’t _you_ getting shot at with those things, too?” he asks Bruce. “You and Clint and - ”

“And most everyone else,” Bucky says. 

Steve watches his eyes narrow. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees Simmons rock back on her heels. 

“They didn’t target you, Captain,” Fitz says, carefully.

Steve’s mind churns. “Someone’s going to have to work this out for me, for us.”

“Not you,” Bruce and Bucky say at the same time.

“Obviously not, if I’m being targeted. I don’t want to play into anyone’s hands. I also don’t want anyone else on my team getting hurt or hit with these shrinking rays. One is enough.” 

He glances at Bucky - hands on hips and irritably contemplating the mug that he can’t lift up and drink from. “Yeah, that’s where the troubles start,” Steve mutters.

///

“He’s exactly one-sixth the size and shape of a regular human being, and people already manufacture all sorts of things at that scale, chairs and tables and beds and _entire houses_ , why are we still yelling about this?” Darcy asks. She seems to be glaring at the image projected up from her phone: an image of Jane Foster’s exasperated face. “I say someone hand me a credit card and I’ll get the shopping done and we can all stop worrying - ”

“I’m worried because it’s you and a credit card,” Jane says, and despite himself and despite his worries Steve almost wants to laugh at the expressions on Darcy’s face, pleading and amused and kicked-puppy all at the same time. “I don’t know if you can remember the last time anyone gave you money and told you to spend it, but I do, and Darcy, there isn’t enough grant money in the _world_ to help me pay it all off.”

“Yeah, right, says the lady who’s getting paid on a regular basis by only the world’s best and most secretive and weirdest government agency - ”

“Which _by definition_ means I can’t just go spending my money, Darcy, or people are gonna start wondering, and if you think SHIELD doesn’t like it when people come snooping around their work, I don’t know, do you _remember_ what happened in New Mexico, because I can, all apologies to Director Coulson - ”

“Apology accepted,” and Steve blinks, too, when Phil Coulson walks through the other set of doors. His tie’s coming undone. Steve’s gaze gets stuck on the spattered black spots on the otherwise immaculate cuffs of his button-up shirt. “Darcy, step away from the Internet before I call Agent Barton in to sit on you.”

“He wouldn’t,” Darcy sing-songs. She dances away from Director Coulson. “He likes me.”

“Not enough to not tie you down, and if you can escape me, you can’t escape Nat.” When he comes in next, Clint, too, is sporting dark spots on his wrists. “Hey, Steve, how you hanging?”

“What happened to you?” Steve asks, stepping into the room completely. He heads for the round table that seats a dozen people comfortably and has seen more than its fair share of people cheating at various kinds of card games, and he turns one of the chairs back to front without thinking about it, before sitting down.

“Oh, these,” Clint says as he crosses to the nearby counters and tears several sheets off a roll of paper towels. “Prototype testing. The gun’s supposed to fire some kind of anesthetic freeze-goop. Good for taking people out without, you know, harming them - we need to do that sometimes.”

“Not as efficient as the ICERs, I’ll admit, but that particular bit of technology’s like the cat out of the bag, so we have to look for something else,” Coulson notes, before sitting down. 

Clint helps him take his jacket off, and holds his hand out for the undone tie as well.

“Are you gonna be giving me one of those guns?” Darcy asks as she sidles closer.

“Are you going to be out in the field any time soon?” Clint counters. He’s trying to look stern, Steve thinks, but he’s failing with every word. By the time he finishes the question he’s already grinning. Darcy has that effect on most people.

“Nope,” Darcy says now.

“Then no,” Coulson says with a slow, satisfied smile. “And no one else is getting them until after they’ve been extensively field-tested. I wish we could get a few units over to Melinda and to Antoine - ”

“Yeah, but you’ve got them a bit deep now, and we’re not going to be blowing their cover for them,” Clint says.

“Not again, no.” Coulson rolls up his sleeves. “I hope the stains wash out easily. Remind me to ask Fitz later.” 

When he turns to Steve he looks pleasantly sharp, as he always does. “How are things with you, Steve?”

Steve shrugs, shuffles his feet, though he’s not standing up and that means he’s not moving or going anywhere. “Worrying about Bucky.” 

He knows the words are a bit of an understatement. They’d finally been cleared to head to quarters last night: two small rooms next to each other. 

Bucky had refused to go into the room with his name on it; had asked Steve, very quietly, if he could spend the night with him.

Steve hadn’t had to be asked twice. He’d hovered, anxiously, while Bucky settled in. Or tried to. 

Too-large bed, too-large blankets, too-large everything. 

He’d listened to Bucky toss and turn all throughout the night, getting tenser and tenser with each rustle and each quiet groan.

Darcy’s hand lands on his shoulder, small and warm. “This is why I’m offering to buy him some things, okay,” she says, very gently. “Something that actually comes in his current size. It’s kind of not nice to see you looking like a kicked puppy. Bad for morale, as our Director over here might say.”

“Still worried about you going overboard, Darcy,” Jane says from the phone, though her voice has also gone quiet and understanding. 

“Okay, compromise, I won’t go overboard - I’ll ask someone to supervise me.”

“Someone sensible, please,” Coulson says, fingers pressed lightly to his temple. “Someone like Danvers, or Wilson - where is he anyway?”

“Someone say my name?”

“Hi Carol,” Darcy says, waving.

Steve watches, and can’t help but crack a small smile, when Carol Danvers crosses the room and ruffles Darcy’s hair and smacks Clint in the shoulder, before she ends up perched on one of the counters. “If that’s what an outing with you guys is like,” she says, scrubbing her hands through her hair, “I should be having serious second thoughts right about now. But all I want is a pen. Like, sign me up.”

“Knew you’d come around,” Coulson says. He looks pleased, Steve thinks. “We’ll work on the secondment papers first thing in the morning. And yes, we were just talking about you. How’re you with sticking to a list of things to buy? As in, you only buy what’s on the list, you don’t make impulse purchases, that sort of thing.”

“I make a lot of impulse purchases when we’re talking about things like beer and beef and bacon and chocolates,” Carol says, laughing when Clint groans quietly and covers his face with one hand. “What, like you don’t?”

“Replace the beer with vodka, the cheaper the better, because for some reason Nat likes the terrible shit,” Clint mutters, half-muffled.

Carol grins. “Yeah. But otherwise I think I’m okay with shopping for things. Why, what needs getting?”

“A house for Bucky,” Darcy says. She’s immediately squelched by Clint, who half-tackles her to the floor. 

“Kindly ignore her for now, please,” Clint says.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying,” Jane Foster says, sounding fond and also like she’s at her wits’ end, and then she must hang up, because Darcy’s phone goes dark.

“Not a house, then,” Carol says. 

And then she looks Steve right in the eyes. “I heard about the thing. Winter Soldier getting shot with shrink rays.” There’s real concern in her eyes, and Steve wants to look away and can’t. “Is he okay? More importantly, are you?”

Steve sighs, and gives in to the inevitable. “He needs things that are sized for him. Furniture for starters. A bed, to be specific. Even the bunks we have here are a little too large for him for now. As for me, well. Do I look okay?”

“Nope. Completely understandable, of course.” 

He holds her gaze as best as he can, and is relieved when she nods and claps her hands and hops off the counter. “Let me go and get changed and then someone send me the list. Oh, and who’s footing the bill?”

“We are, of course - we’ll file it under requisitions,” Coulson says.

“Good. Okay. I should probably go and get something to work with. Be back in a few.”

Steve gets to his feet when she stops next to him. “You’ll be fine, both of you,” she says, and her hand on his forearm is steady and steadying.

“Thanks for the help,” he says.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” she says, pulling away and throwing him an impish grin. “I could get a really ornate and old-fashioned-looking doll bed for Bucky, and then where would you be?”

“Oh good god no,” Coulson says, very quietly.

Steve’s torn between laughing at the others, and agreeing with him.

///

“I think Danvers went overboard,” Bucky says, a few days later.

Steve is inclined to agree. A fair amount of the floor space next to his cot is now being taken up by several boxes full of clothes and shoes and, god help them both, perfectly sized miniature underwear. He wasn’t actually anticipating designer-label clothes in one-sixth scale, but there they are: there’s at least one suit in the lot, carefully protected in its garment bag. The color scheme makes him think that either Tony or Pepper has had a hand in its selection: black shirt, black jacket, black trousers, and a shocking supersaturated neon green tie.

And Steve has just been informed that Tony has also been spending the past few days on creating an arsenal for Bucky to carry around on him, in his currently somewhat smaller size. 

That might be a good thing or a bad thing, and Steve thinks about edging over into a slight panic attack.

Is anyone on the helicarrier actually _expecting_ Bucky to fight at this size? Because there’s an entire host of attendant problems to think about. At this size, Bucky could move faster and be less noticeable - and stealth is kind of one of the things that’s always been branded into Bucky’s skin and muscles and bones, even before the whole Winter Soldier gig. But at this size, how is he going to get out of the way of things going boom, when that’s something of a stock in trade for most of the team? Even Director Coulson is handy with large-caliber weapons; just ask the late-not-so-lamented Clairvoyant.

Still, he has to work at keeping those thoughts from showing up on his face. He thinks about the fallout of Bucky reading his mind and - yeah, no, he’s not up for any of the possibilities. Bucky might laugh himself sick. Bucky might swear vengeance on him, now or later. Bucky might refuse to talk to him. 

As Skye would put it: _Nope nope nope._

Many of Bucky’s new t-shirts are missing one sleeve entirely, and it looks like it’s even been done on purpose, and Steve wonders when that became something of a fashion trend.

Bucky’s wearing one of those shirts now, actually, and is waving another in Steve’s general direction. “It feels pretty nice. Soft and cool at the same time. Don’t you have anything like this?”

Steve looks up from his sketchpad, where he’s been trying to distract himself by laying in the guidelines for a sketch of the helicarrier. “I don’t really notice,” he says, giving up on his pencil for the time being. He puts his things away and shifts to lie on his stomach. There’s not much space to turn over on the cot, so it’s a slower process than usual. “They’re just clothes.”

Soft snickering, and he looks over just in time to catch Bucky’s slow and toothy grin. “So - you never noticed your shirts were getting a little bit tighter every time you wore them?”

That does make Steve roll his eyes. “I’m technically in my nineties, Buck, I’m not stupid. Of course I noticed. Who put you up to it?”

“What makes you think anyone put me up to it? I did it for myself,” Bucky says, proudly. “ _And_ bonus points to me because I’m generous enough to not mind when the rest of the team, let alone the rest of the city, stares at you when you’re out and about.”

Steve stares at him for a long time, and he has no idea what he looks like - but Bucky must find it hilarious, because he pauses in his attempt to climb up the metal frame of the cot to stare back - and then, suddenly, Bucky’s laughing hard enough that he loses his grip, and starts to fall.

Panicking, Steve swipes at him, and manages to catch a handful of Bucky’s shirt. He uses that to haul Bucky up onto the mattress - he lets Bucky go just on top of his own pillow, whereupon Bucky rolls over and starts banging his fists into the white pad. “Your _face_ , ah god, fuckin’ perfect - ”

“Nice to see you’re still up to your goddamn pranks,” Steve says, but he’s only pretending to be grumpy, because Bucky’s laughter is infectious, has always been, and he only has a few more seconds’ worth of attempting a poker face before he has to snort and shake his head and laugh.

“Never lost it,” Bucky says, once he’s got his breath back. “I think.” He’s smiling, now, but only just, and Steve has seen the haunted edge in his eyes too many times. 

Sometimes Bucky keeps talking, if he finds himself inadvertently stumbling into a subject or subjects that he’d rather forget; and sometimes, as with right now, he shuts his mouth and shakes his head. Steve can hear him swallowing his words.

When he reaches out blindly, Steve’s there to catch him. And Steve does it, careful now, but only because Bucky currently has small hands. 

Bucky’s flesh hand is a hard hot point between Steve’s thumb and pointer finger.

When Bucky moves some more, Steve accommodates him. He almost reaches for the blankets, but Bucky shakes his head.

So instead Steve shifts onto his back, head propped up on his pillows, and he stays still. Lets Bucky climb him, climb into his shirt.

The end result is Bucky snugged right into Steve’s collar, stretching the thin cloth out, curled up a little on his left side - and Steve feels Bucky’s left arm grow steadily warmer from the contact with his own skin.

“I think I prefer cuddling you when you’re, I don’t know, almost as tall as I am,” Steve murmurs. He has to content himself with running a fingertip carefully up and down Bucky’s back, where he would normally perform the same movements with his palm flattened against Bucky’s skin, his fingertips catching Bucky’s sweat and Bucky’s hair.

“I’d really like that right now,” Bucky says, soft and drowsy and - calm. He’s calm. 

Steve hopes he’s processing, hopes he’s going to be okay, for tonight.

///

He walks straight into a screaming argument, or at least that’s the first impression Steve gets a few days later, still wiping the last crumbs of cereal from his mouth.

There’d been a message on his phone, and no Bucky in his bed, when he’d woken up:

_Went for a walk. Didn’t want to wake you up. You still look really nice in the mornings, even if you do snore fit to shake the walls down. (I never taught you that.) It should be easy to find me later. Either find the food fight or listen for the screaming._

Well, there hadn’t been any food fights, or perhaps Steve’d slept through both the food fight _and_ the clean-up, because he’d gone to the cafeteria and filled an oversized bowl with cornflakes and milk and there were familiar and sleepy faces scattered around the tables - including Skye, who was nodding off over what looked like most of a breakfast burrito.

In deference to her sleep-creased, bird’s-nest-hair state, he hadn’t done anything more than wave vaguely in her direction when she stumbled past, muttering under her breath.

So, no food fight, and Bucky hadn’t been to the cafeteria.

Steve’d jogged the length of a couple of corridors in the helicarrier, always alert, always the first to step aside as soon as he sensed someone coming or going.

First he’d heard the footsteps gaining on him - an almost familiar rhythm, catching up with him, although not without some effort. He’d heard labored breathing. That was the part he recognized.

He’d stopped in a quiet alcove next to a set of small windows, and waited patiently.

“I go away for a week and things just _fall apart_ , honestly, what am I supposed to do with you guys,” were the first words out of Sam’s mouth, and really, what else could Steve do but cringe and shrug and smile, a little, in that order? He’d known going in that SHIELD and the Avengers were a madhouse - he’d taken pains to _warn_ Carol about that part of joining up. 

So he’d spilled the beans, the whole strange story, and watched the astonished exasperated expressions cross his friend’s face, all the way up to the part where he’d shown Sam the message on his mobile phone.

Now they’re trotting down a set of steps to a place that Steve has gotten recently familiar with: Bruce’s lab, and Sam is going through another odd series of faces, smiling and snickering and shaking his head, and Steve is left confused and a little bit worried: “Is there something wrong?” he asks, finally, as they swing around a corner.

Sam snorts and claps his shoulder. “Your face is gonna freeze if you keep looking like that,” he says. “I get being worried, but you take it to superhuman extremes, like you do everything else.”

“So why are you hanging on to my phone? What’s with the message?”

“You just told me,” Sam says, patiently, “that you think Bucky left this message when he woke up.”

“Yes.”

“You also told me he’s _twelve inches tall_ \- so how did he work the phone in the first place? I’m imagining he had to use his entire hand for each key. And I don’t know about you, but there’s something weirdly cute about that image, though please don’t tell him I said that, because I do like being alive and not, I don’t know, getting chased down the street. We’ve already been through that shit.”

Steve stares at him for a moment, and then it’s his turn to snort and shake his head.

“Told ya,” Sam says, sounding insufferably smug now.

And then Steve hears the voices: a whole cacophony of them, boisterous and seemingly coming from all over the place.

Bruce’s lab is apparently full of people and screens, and Sam whistles quietly as they walk through the open door, as Steve blinks and takes the scene in:

Fitz and Simmons are again occupying one of the virtual screens, and this time she looks exasperated, and she gently swats him on the shoulder. It doesn’t seem to stop Fitz from smiling, though.

An unexpected face in one of the other screens: Thor. He looks a little tired, Steve thinks, or that might just be his impression, because there’s a fading bruise on Thor’s jaw, faint yellow and green. The bruise doesn’t seem to be impeding the grin, however, and Steve thinks Thor looks thoughtful and fond at the same time, which is just par for the course when he’s looking at Jane.

Too bad the same can’t be said for Darcy: she’s dogging Jane’s heels as the latter paces, and back and forth they go, alternating between yelling at each other and throwing asides at everyone else in the lab.

“Hey, Steve,” Carol says. “Hey, Sam.” She’s sitting atop one of the smaller worktables, seemingly comfortable, and she’s holding a bag of chips, which she shakes invitingly at them. “Hungry?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sam says, taking a handful and going to lean on the worktable next to her.

“Can someone tell me what’s going on, and if Bucky’s here?” Steve asks.

It’s Bruce who answers as he emerges from one of the far corners of the lab. The wheels of the cart he drags along with him squeak on the clean floor. “Oh, hi there, Steve. You got here just in time.”

“Just in time for what?”

“Time to test this thing we’ve come up with,” Jane says, nodding thanks as Bruce approaches her. “Hello, Steve. We’ve been talking about coming up with a cure for Sergeant Barnes’s current condition.”

“Translation, Jane hasn’t slept for the last thirty-six hours, and I only barely managed to convince her to eat and drink and basically not kill herself with her devotion to science,” Darcy interjects. She drops into an office chair. It squeaks, just a little, in protest.

Steve looks at Thor. He’s a little out of his depth and he knows it.

“I have come across mention of restoratives for conditions akin to what the good Sergeant is now experiencing,” Thor says, “and I have passed on what I know and what I could find to my Jane. And she and the others have been working tirelessly on this conundrum. I know that it is trying for you to have to be without your - partner. I can only hope that the information that I have found will be helpful.”

“Thank you.” Steve finds himself swallowing back a rush of emotions. Perhaps it’s the kindly look in Thor’s eyes, or perhaps it’s the sincerity in every line of his face.

“Calm down, Steve,” Bruce says as he hooks another chair with his foot and sits down. “And yes, I know, normally that’s your line. I think I’ll enjoy the role reversal for a second.”

“Especially since we all know Steve’s gonna turn into a runt when he gets angry,” says a familiar voice. “Or should I say, he turns _back_ into a runt when he gets angry.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and he feels a little bit like he might sag at the knees from sheer relief. 

“I didn’t disappear, and I didn’t go away,” Bucky tells him, next, as though he’s been reading Steve’s mind. Skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt held together at the seams with a multitude of safety pins. He’s dragging one of the doll-sized chairs with him, and Steve watches carefully as he turns it back to front before sitting down.

“That seems to be a common way of sitting down,” Thor suddenly says. “Do you have no use for the chair’s back, or for its arms?”

“No arms on this one, buddy,” Bucky says. “And I always just liked to sit down this way. I can lean on the back of the chair if I need to.”

Thor nods. “It is more comfortable to sit like that, I assume.”

“Not if you want to read something for long,” Jane says with a shrug. 

Thor’s attention switches to her, and Steve can move again - which he does when Bucky beckons to him. 

“You look scared to death,” Bucky says. “If the note wasn’t enough, I’m sorry. We really need to be able to leave each other notes and shit, though. Can’t always be stuck following each other.”

Steve doesn’t really care that the others can and probably are listening in to this conversation, though when he glances out of the corner of his eye he can see Darcy turning some of the virtual screens in different directions, including the one currently being used by Fitz and Simmons. “It’s just - different, right now, because you’re a different size, you’re small - I’m sorry, I know that sounds like some kind of lousy excuse to be overbearing - ”

“Not really.” Bucky reaches out a hand, which Steve captures carefully between thumb and first finger. “Because I’m getting real tired of being small, too. Just walking around this place is a headache and a half at this size.”

“It’s a different kind of exercise?” Steve offers.

“No thanks.”

Silence, and then, Steve offers, “That’s a great outfit. You look really good.”

“Thank Danvers over there,” Bucky says. “And whoever was looking over her shoulder and telling her to buy this and that and this thing I’m wearing.”

“Yeah, I can hear you loud and clear right now,” Carol says, grinning widely. “Whatever it is you’re accusing me of, you got no proof, and you can’t prove I did it.”

“Except I can, but I won’t,” a new voice says, to several greetings.

“Hey Cap. Hey mini Bucky,” Skye says.

Steve smiles. He can’t help it. There is a huge difference between the Skye he’d seen in the cafeteria and the Skye who’s offering fist-bumps all around. She looks awake, somewhat manically so, and she sits down next to Jane and in full view of Fitz and Simmons - to whom she then offers screen-based high-fives.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Bucky says, though when Steve turns back to him he’s trying to suppress a laugh of his own. 

“Not gonna happen,” Skye says. “I am so not passing up an opportunity like this. It might be a one-off.”

“It might not be,” Bruce tells her. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re all kind of weirdness magnets.”

“Tell me about it. Still. Not taking any chances.”

“Where is this cure we’ve been yammering about, has anyone forgotten I’d like to be not twelve inches tall?” Bucky demands, suddenly.

“The good Sergeant is most impatient, and I sympathize most sincerely with his current plight.” Thor looks concerned, now.

“We were prototyping the delivery system,” Fitz says. “Sending the plans over now.”

There’s a sound of computers whirring and thinking, and then Jane flashes a thumbs-up. “Got it,” she says. “Thanks, guys. You’re up, Doctor Banner.”

“Doctor Foster,” Bruce says, smiling a little, as he rolls both his chair and his cart over to another desk, and starts in at his own workstation.

This time Steve hears the sound of machinery grinding very quietly into gear, and he glances at Bucky - who growls, and shakes his head, and folds his arms.

“Sorry about that,” Bruce says, getting to his feet. “Okay, we got it, this looks good, guys,” he says.

“Good luck,” Simmons says.

Steve glances at Sam and Carol, who are still sitting well away from the action; after a moment Darcy pushes to her feet and goes to sit with them. “This isn’t exactly the kind of shit I know anything about. I’m just Jane’s gofer, you know,” she says.

Sam shrugs, and Carol shakes her head very slightly.

“No help at all,” Bucky says. He’s gotten up from his chair, and he’s pacing a small circle on the table, and Steve watches him, feeling tense and more than a little out of his depth.

“All right, here we go,” Bruce says. 

Steve raises his eyebrows at the gloves and goggles.

“Hope you’re not coming after me with those clamps, doc,” Bucky says. 

Steve thinks he must be the only one who hears the shaking in those words.

“I sort of have to, and for that, I’m sorry,” Bruce says, brandishing a forceps. “See what I’ve got on the end?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “A syringe for me. Looks as big as a rocket. And I know rockets.”

Bruce winces. “I know it’s not the best delivery system - ”

“ - Yeah, no, it’s not - but let’s get it over with.” 

Steve sits up at the next words: “Steve? Don’t you chicken out on me now.”

Steve answers the only way he can. “You’re all talk - which one of us didn’t want to get his shots?”

“I still don’t like ’em,” Bucky says, before rolling up his right sleeve.

“You don’t have to look,” Simmons says from somewhere behind Steve. “In fact, I recommend it.”

“Gotcha, doc.”

Steve meets Bruce’s eyes. He trusts him. 

And so does Bucky, who’s actually edged closer to the edge of the tabletop for easy access.

“Be of good cheer,” Thor says, and shows him his hands. His fingers are crossed. “I learned this from Lady Darcy; she tells me it is a gesture intended to wish favorable fortune for oneself or for another.”

“Thanks, Thor,” Steve says, and crosses his own fingers - at least, the ones that aren’t next to Bucky.

Bucky nods, turns away, takes a deep breath. “Hit me, Banner.”

“This is gonna hurt a little,” Bruce says.

Steve doesn’t tear his eyes away. So intent is he that he almost misses the collective intake of breath all around him.

“Ow.” Bucky’s voice, a quiet groan, rasping around the edges.

Steve gets to his feet - 

“Step back,” Bruce warns.

“I think it’s working,” Bucky says, and then - he leaps off the table.

_Thump._

“I’m okay.”

Steve has to close his jaw with his own mouth so he can speak again - but it’s hard to muster the words when Bucky’s sprawled out at his feet - Bucky at his original size, Bucky still in those unforgivably fashionable clothes, Bucky who’s no longer twelve inches tall.

“Yes! It’s alive!” Carol crows. “Ahahahahaha!”

“What the hell, mad scientist laughter, are you serious,” Sam says, and Steve looks away from Bucky just long enough to catch Sam as he rolls his eyes.

“Yay, team!” Skye says, throwing her hands into the air.

Thor is laughing, and Bruce is shaking his head, and the others are nodding or dancing or - something. Steve’s not really paying attention, because Bucky is hauling himself to his feet, is _looking at him_ , and Steve’s rooted in place. He can’t breathe - 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Bucky drawls, looking Steve right in the eyes, stepping in close. His warm breath washes over Steve’s cheek.

“I think I might be,” Steve says, amazed he’s still speaking. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah.”

And then Bucky _moves_.

This is how Steve finds himself with his arms full of Bucky, who is currently doing a very good impression of a koala who’s found a particularly nice eucalyptus tree to hang out in. His legs wound around Steve’s waist, and both of his arms around Steve’s shoulders.

“Hi,” Steve mutters into the tangled mess of Bucky’s hair, and he doesn’t hear the others, doesn’t hear anything else, just Bucky hanging on to him and him hanging on to Bucky.

He’ll thank everyone later, and they’ll have to talk about that cure and about the one-sixth-scale clothes and the furniture. A lot of talking. A lot of working through exactly what happened. Results from Triplett and from May, and from their ongoing investigations. Results from Tony, who’s apparently got the weapons that had hit Bucky.

Later.

All of that will keep for later.

Right now, Steve just hitches Bucky closer - and when Bucky kisses him, he doesn’t think twice. He kisses back. Forget everyone else around him, and forget the fact that he can _hear_ the click of people taking photos of him and of Bucky. 

Steve kisses Bucky, holds him close, and Bucky’s hands are cupping the back of his head, and everything is right with the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Original art prompt by Johanirae [HERE](http://s1150.photobucket.com/user/Avengers_rbb/media/Avengers%20RBB%20summer%202014/107.jpg.html). We used the [Hot Toys Winter Soldier figure](http://www.hottoys.com.hk/productDetail.php?productID=229) as a reference for miniaturized!Bucky’s height. 
> 
> Carol Danvers and James Rhodes are in this fic because I wanted them to be in here, and I am not ashamed that almost all of Team Coulson from Agents of SHIELD made it in, either.
> 
> This story was a ton of fun to write and do research for, and I’m almost sad we had to bring Bucky back to normal size, but then if that hadn’t happened we would never have that brilliant, brilliant final image of Steve and Bucky hugging. 
> 
> I was so very glad I got to work with Johanirae; we’ve been great fandom friends for a long time, and we’ve collaborated informally in the past, but we have never got to work together like this! Amazing prompt was just lovely and happy and KWEH. <3
> 
> \-----
> 
> I am also on [tumblr](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Avengers RBB 2014 Art Master Post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2172951) by [johanirae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/pseuds/johanirae), [ninemoons42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42)




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